


Life of Zo

by Tinamour



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Bisexual Character, Gen, Mention of alcohol, Minor Character Death, Zo's life, Zo's story, bisexual!Zo, death of parents, since canon doesn't give us much information
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 21:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12756900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinamour/pseuds/Tinamour
Summary: Zo finally gets to tell how he ended up in Florence.





	Life of Zo

“I’ve got Medici blood, you know.”

“Yeah, we do,” Nico said before snuggling closer to Zo. It was cold on the rooftop.

“You told that one a billion times already,” mumbled Leo as he took another sip from his beer.

“Come on! You can ramble away about your own parents and your oh so tragic childhood stories as much as you like, but I can’t? How unfair is that?”

“Fine,” Leo agreed with a shove into Zo’s ribs. “Tell your damn story.”

Zo jerked his head backwards and gulped his drink dry.

“Right, so it all started in the town of Peretola…”

#

The sun was high in the sky, at long last.

High sun meant noon, which meant more risk of sunburns, increased heat and dust so thick it was hard to breathe, but it also meant a break from the back-breaking job, some rest in the shadow of a lemon tree, food, and a few sips of ale.

Tommaso followed his father into the shade. Giovanni wasn’t really his father, according to what his mother told him, but he seemed to love him all the same.

“Give me the bread, boy,” his father said as he sat down against the tree trunk with a grunt.

There was no other son in the family and all male cousins of both Giovanni and Stella lived too far to be of any help. So it was only Tommaso and Giovanni taking care of the gardens of the rich folks of Peretola, and since there weren’t that many rich folks in Peretola, they made both ends meet by working in the fields.

Tommaso sometimes wondered if that why was Giovanni had married his mother. Tommaso was Stella’s only child, but he was a boy, and maybe Giovanni hoped that his new wife would bear more sons to work with him, since his first marriage had only produced one child, a girl named Agnese.

She was two years older than Tommaso and they were always bickering, as siblings should. But no matter how annoying Agnese could be when she set her mind to it, Tommaso still liked her, since she was the one who sneaked him biscuits after his mother had forbidden him from even approaching the jar where she kept the biscuits and other treats.

For now, there was no foreseeable child, so the gardening business would fall to Tommaso when he was old enough. He wasn’t particularly excited about it.

Giovanni soon snored under the lemon tree, his large hat hiding his face.

Tommaso smiled to himself.

From his experience, he knew he had just around one hour before Giovanni woke up and ushered him to work again. He stood up as quietly as he could and sneaked away to the dirt road. He ran all the way back to the village and was breathless by the time he climbed through the window of his room in the attic. He would have used the main door, but his mother was cooking in the main room and she would scold him if she saw he was avoiding work.

He kneeled before his bed and dragged the book from under the mattress. It was a heavy tome, with a cracked leather cover and pages of old and smelly yellowish parchment. The pages were covered in strange symbols drawn in dark ink that Tommaso couldn’t understand.

 

“Because it was some sort of ancient and mythical alphabet?”

“No, because I hadn’t learned how to read. For fuck’s sake, Leo, do you always have to romanticize everything?”

“I’m just trying to make your tale more epic.”

“It’s already epic enough, thank you...Any other remarks? Nico? Maybe not enough mystery for your taste? No, we’re good? Where was I…Right! The book.”

 

Tommaso had been given the book by an old traveller who had stopped at Peretola’s main inn on one very windy, dark and ominous evening. Lightning struck as young Tommaso beheld the volume in the man’s travel bag and he was mesmerized by the delicacy of the work. And he was even more impressed by the symbols written in it.

The old man kept the book open on the table where he dined, apparently for no other reason than to attract the villagers’ attention, and he would answer with a smile each quirky look the people in the inn shot him. Tommaso, indulging his curiosity – and eager to escape the nightly chores – climbed on a stool in front of the old man.

“What is that?”

A smile brought wrinkles to the corners of the tight mouth. “It’s a book, my boy. Have you never seen one?”

Tommaso shook his head. “Not from so close.” There were books in the houses of the fancy folks and a very heavy-looking and golden one in the church. That particular one looked very precious and expensive, especially with all the delicate swirls of colours and gold spread on the pages. The book the man had before him looked similar to the one in the church, even if the corners were more worn out.

“Where did you get it? And what’s in it?”

“Stories,” the old men answered, his tired eyes lighting up. “Tales from forgotten times, of faraway lands and fantastic beasts that you wouldn’t believe were once real. Fables of brave and resourceful people, whose courage saved them and their lands many time. You wouldn’t believe your eyes if I showed you everything this book contains!”

 

“That old guy sounds creepy.”

“Only because you’re drunk. He was rather nice.”

“If you say so…”

“I do say so. It’s my story. Now, shut up and drink your beer.”

 

Years later…

 

“Wait? Where did the old man go?”

“What do you care, you said he was creepy.”

“Yeah, but it’s even more creepy if he disappears into thin air!”

“He didn’t. He woke up the next morning and left the book behind him and we never saw him again. There. Can I go on?”

“How did you get the book? No-one else wanted it?”

“I used the same method I do to get your stuff, Leo. Anyway...”

 

Years later, sickness devastated the town. The people of Peretola prayed to God to deliver them from their suffering and the only deliverance God granted them was death.

After days and days of tending to the sick, Stella fell ill herself and her son tried to nurse her back to health. One night, as she lay delirious in her bed, she beckoned Tommaso closer.

“Listen, my boy,” she said in a faint and breathy voice. “I have to tell you the truth…about your father.”

Tommaso drew closer, and tried to soothe his mother, to keep her from exhausting herself even more by talking. But deep down, he wanted to know what she was about to tell him.

“Your father…he isn’t some lowly peasant from this town, no…Your father…is from the illustrious Medici family. He gave me a token, to gift to you when you were of age…so that he could recognize you…when the time…came.” She swallowed with difficulty. Her eyes were glistening and her skin was damp with fever, yet she seemed so cold and tired and weak. Gazing into her son’s eyes, she cupped his cheek with a shaking hand. “Tommaso…”

Those were her last words.

 

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, Nico.”

“I’ll find a more effective way to cure people, someday.”

“Sure you will, Leo.”

 

They buried Stella in the small parcel of land that served as a cemetery and which had been widened since the sickness had come into the city. Giovanni joined her soon after, as did many more of the villagers.

Agnese and Tommaso, maybe because of their young age, survived.

As soon as the town was cleared from the last miasma of sickness, Giovanni and Stella’s cousins arrived in Peretola, determined to claim the family inheritance. There was no legal papers to prove that anything belonged to either Tommaso or Agnese, so the cousins took the house. They had to take the children too and one night as he stared at the beams of the attic, waiting for sleep to come, Tommaso heard his mother’s cousin say that they would marry Agnese off to one of their relatives and send Tommaso to an apprenticeship as far from Peretola as possible.

Tommaso darted out of bed, reached under the mattress for the book that had remained there for all those years, now joined by the small golden medal that his father had given his mother, and he went to shake Agnese awake.

Once he had told her of the cousin’s plan, she agreed to leave.

The siblings disappeared in the night, in direction of Florence.

#

Florence was loud and stinky and full of noisy people who never remained quiet, not even during the night. Especially not during the night. It was everything Tommaso could have dreamed of.

He had found a room in a tavern, so small that he and Agnese had to share a bed, but it was better than sleeping in the street. Agnese was very good at sewing and embroidering, and she had found work at a tailor’s shop. Tommaso had no particular skill, except maybe his dashing smile, good looks and silver tongue, but that didn’t bring him any money. He had tried selling his services as a blacksmith’s apprentice but had been kicked out because he wasn’t strong enough. Same bad luck at the taverns, the butcher’s shops, the bakeries and the stables.

Out of ideas to earn money and refusing to sell either of his most treasured possessions, he resorted to begging in the street.

 

“Zo...Are you okay?”

“Yes, I just...Anyway. I got out of there pretty soon, thanks to my sister. And a boy.”

 

Agnese had attracted the gaze of a young man named Francesco. He had seen her one day as she left the tailor’s shop and had fallen in love with her. He started courting her, gained her friendship and her interest and soon, her love. This all seemed very well, until the issue of a dowry came up.

The boy was a farmer’s son and didn’t expect much, but Agnese couldn’t even afford the fabric for her wedding dress. As he saw her sister cry at night, ready to call off the engagement, Tommaso decided to help. The following morning, he went to the only pawnshop owner of Florence whom he knew wouldn’t accuse him of theft and presented him with the medal.

The man gave him forty soldi for the medal. The coins weighed less heavily in Tommaso’s pocket at his sister’s smile when he announced her that all was settled.

The marriage took place in summer, on the land of the groom’s father, and Tommaso hadn’t had that much fun in years. Agnese’s happiness was obvious and she seemed confident she would remain happy. Her brother hoped she would.

As the party wore on, Tommaso was taken aside by a boy his age. Slightly shorter than him, with very light brown hair and an angelic and charming smile, Angelo was Francesco’s young brother. Tommaso had noticed him in the church already and there was something about that boy that had made him look at him from time to time through the whole evening. Tommaso had been attracted to both boys and girls in Peretola, but he had never wished so strongly that someone would kiss him.

They did kiss, hidden behind the hay in the barn, slightly drunk, but that only made the kiss taste sweeter.

Tommaso came to the farm a few times after that, presumably to pay Agnese a visit, and Angelo went up to Florence a few times, presumably to carry out business for his father.

Three months later, they left for Rome together.

Angelo wanted to be a condottiere, and he thought that Rome would be the best place to start such a career. The noble families were always at odds with each other and needed men to carry out their vengeance.

In Rome, Tommaso learnt how to read. Their landlord was a very nice man, who had a large family and each evening, he would teach his youngest children how to read. In the hope that he would learn something and finally be able to decipher the mysterious book, Tommaso sneaked down from the attic room and sat on the stairs, where he could watch and hear without being seen nor heard.

“I saw you last night,” the landlord said one morning. “You’re most welcome to join us, if you want to learn.”

And from then on, Tommaso spent his evening seated amongst the family, learning to put a meaning to the strange symbols. Some evenings, the symbols drawn on the board were new and they formed words that Tommaso had never heard.

“You’re not only teaching Italian, are you?” he asked the landlord one night as he helped him clean up the room after the children had been sent to bed.

“No,” the man answered with a hint of distrust in his eyes, or was it fear? “It’s Yiddish.”

“Can you teach me that too?”

The landlord nodded.

 

“Wait, you speak Yiddish? You never told me that.”

“Maybe because you never asked, you prick.”

 

With his new knowledge, Tommaso was finally able to decipher the book he had owned since childhood. The old man back at the inn in Peretola hadn’t lied: it was indeed about fables and monsters and brave people. And once his reading got better and he wasn’t embarrassed about stumbling on every word, he would read some stories to the children at night. And he started imagining his own stories. There were other books too, other ideas, fascinating and enticing, like a stream that would never dry, and that inspired him to tell more stories. He discovered he was good at it. As a child, he could sometimes convince his mother that he was innocent of whatever she was scolding him for. And what were stories but elaborate lies?

Eventually, Angelo slept less and less often in their room and they grew apart. Eventually, Angelo never came back home, barely leaving a note to Tommaso saying that he was leaving but not explaining why. He wasn’t the first person Tommaso was honey-eyed for; there had been plenty of foolish childish games in Peretola, involving both boys and girls, but Angelo had been the first person he had fallen in love with.

Tommaso wondered for nights and nights what he was going to do. He still hadn’t found a stable job and even if the landlord had been nice enough to let him stay if he took care of the children or helped in the house from time to time, he felt as if he was being a nuisance to people who didn’t deserve that.

His tortured thoughts often led him to taverns and that night, as he half-listened to some highborn condottieri discussing what they called philosophy, he heard the name “Zoroaster”. He didn’t pay it any attention at first, too engrossed in his drink, but the name followed him home and whirled and whirled again and again in his mind until he couldn’t sleep.

The name sounded like the name of someone important, and when he scribbled it down on a piece of paper, the curls and swirls of the letters seemed to call to him. There were only a few people in Rome who knew him as Tommaso. Why couldn’t he change his name? Also, the termination, “aster”, made him think of the stars, and of his mother. Yes, if he were to change his name, he would pick that one. It sounded way better than ‘Tommaso’.

 

“That’s what I was about to say: Tommaso isn’t such a great name.”

“I’ll regret giving you my birth name, will I?”

“Most likely.”

 

As a new name meant a new departure, Zo was determined to leave Rome. As much as he wanted to go back to Florence and to see Agnese, the memory of Angelo was still too fresh and painful.

One day, as he strolled through the busy streets of Rome, he was called by a familiar voice. The young man seemed roughly his age and was smiling widely.

“Tommaso Masini? It’s me, Amerigo Vespucci, from Peretola. You remember me, right?”

He seemed rather upset and maybe a tad offended that Zo did not.

The man scratched his neck, which drew Zo’s attention to his chest, and it struck.

Five years ago, in the river at Peretola.

The weather had been insufferably hot and all the kids of Peretola had ended up stark naked in the stream. No-one had a chest like Amerigo Vespucci’s.

“Yes, I remember you. But it’s Zo, now,” said Zo.

“Really? Nice.” Amerigo clasped Zo’s arm. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just passing,” said Zo with a shrug. “And you? I thought you were supposed to be a monk or something, like your uncle.”

Amerigo rolled his eyes up to the sky. “That old fuck! I dumped him as soon as I could. Can you imagine, me, in a monastery? That would be a waste!”

“Sure would,” Zo agreed with a smile.

They ended up in a tavern, drinking some beer and chatting about their childhood in Peretola and their dealings in Rome and what they were doing in life. Amerigo was running a small business or rather what Zo would have called a scam. He had snatched a bunch of old bones from a butcher’s shop and once cleaned and grinded, sold the bones as relics. Zo couldn’t believe how gullible people were.

“I could use a partner, you know,” Amerigo said as he sipped his beer. “We could spread out through the city, cover more ground, gain more money…”

“I’m in.”

Zo discovered selling bones as saint relics to gullible people was as easy as telling children stories of mythological beasts. Except you didn’t have to worry about Vatican guards when you told kids stories…Zo always ran quicker than them and he soon knew the best hiding spots in the city. Still, he was afraid that one day bad luck would make him run into Angelo.

“We should leave,” Zo said one day as he and Amerigo shared the profits from their scams. “People are starting to know us. Soon, they won’t believe our lies and buy from us.”

“It’s true that we’re earning less these days,” Amerigo agreed, flipping a coin between two fingers. “Where do you want to go?”

#

“The one and only, ladies and gentlemen! For the ridiculous sum of twenty soldi, you can own a fragment of the very bone of Saint Augustinus! Guarantees the return of lost love, and will bring you fame and fortune! For only twenty soldi, ladies and gentlemen!”

 

“Wait. What happened? Where did Amerigo go?”

“Zo?”

“Zo? Where did he go?”

“Zo?”

“I’m not telling you. Why do you care anyway?”

“It just feels like a loose thread in the story. If you introduce a character, you ought to give them a proper exit, no? Get them out of the story in a satisfying way?

“Use your imagination, Nico, I’m not giving any more detail.”

 

“Twenty soldi, only twenty soldi!”

 

“Zo, come on!”

“Fine, you know what, fuck the two of you. You know about the Medicis, I’m not telling you anything more.”

He rose from the rooftop and stumbled back into the studio.

Leo and Nico waited for a moment, looking at the stars that shone a bit blurrily now that they had emptied all the bottles they had brought outside.

“Maybe we should go back inside,” Nico suggested. “He seemed rather upset.”

“Yeah, we should…” Leo agreed.

They found Zo crouched on the bed. He didn’t move when they sat next to him. Leo nudged him in the side. “Hey, you okay?”

Zo mumbled something no-one understood.

“How about you tell the kid how we met?” offered Leo. “You always like telling that story.”

“Only if you don’t interrupt me, asshole.”

“I promise I won’t.”

Zo’s face lit up again and he settled more comfortably on the bed. “Alright, Nico, prepare your young ears, you’ll be blown away by how stupid that one,” he gestured to Leo, “can be.”

#

The wind made the flame of the torch flicker and Zo wondered if he shouldn’t rather snuff it out. He could see well enough in the soft glimmer of the moon and the flame made him easier to spot. Sneaking around on ancient sites wasn’t as prohibited as grave robbing, but it still wasn’t actively encouraged. But it was worth the risk. With luck, he would find some old coins or fragments of pottery…That would sell better than bone powder. Rich folks were often more interested in antique trinkets than in relics those days. And they paid more than random people in the streets.

Twigs and leaves were crunched behind Zo and he held tighter onto the shovel. He waited a moment, listening for more sound. Everything was quiet now, except for the occasional crackle of the torch. Zo waited for what seemed to be forever but finally exhaled. He had planted the shovel once more into the ground when he heard quick running footsteps behind him and a thud as if something had jumped. He had just the time to turn around before a man crashed into him. His back met the soil painfully. The man was rather heavy. Zo still managed to push him back and into the hole he was digging.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked as he jumped back to his feet and picked up the shovel, holding it menacingly over the man’s head. “Are you part of the night guard?”

The man rose on one elbow and spit some dirt from his mouth. “No, I’m not,” he said, raising a hand before his face. As if it would protect him against the shovel that Zo was determined to dig his face with if things turned ugly.

“Why are you here, then? Fancy the fresh air?”

“No, I’m interested in the artefacts, like you.”

Zo almost instinctively slammed the shovel into the man’s face.

#

The unconscious man weighed almost as much as a corpse.

Zo hadn’t hit as hard as he originally thought, because the man still whimpered and mumbled and his pulse was regular. Not dead, which was a good thing, but Zo still didn’t want that guy interfering in his business.

He dragged the body up to the outskirts of the ancient site and left it there, concealed by some bushes. It would look as if the man had been attacked by bandits but he wasn’t visible from the road so didn’t risk actual bandits hurting him more than Zo already had. He was about to leave but noticed that the man’s shirt and coat were open. The night was rather chilly. Zo felt stupid for it, but he closed the buttons up to the top of the man’s chest.

When he passed by again, a bag full of items that would allow him to eat and drink to his heart’s content for a month or at least two weeks, the man was gone.

#

“Behold, Saint Antonius’ famous…”

“Asshole!”

Zo turned and immediately noticed the young man yelling at him. He was in the last rows of the crowd that had assembled to hear Zo’s lies, but he was quickly pushing his way to the front, not bothering to apologize as he shoved people aside.

“If you’ll excuse me, good people of Florence.”

Zo snatched his bag and ran as fast as he could. He was selling the bones and other items in a block of very winding streets and alleys, today. With some luck, the turns and detours would be enough to lose the man he had met while digging last night.

He pushed his way through people selling fruits and vegetables, most of them rotten, and narrowly avoided used water being thrown into the street. He quickly turned to look behind him. The street was almost clear and the man was nowhere to be seen.

The same rapid footsteps and thud as the man leapt, made Zo swear before he found himself thrown to the ground and into something very soft and stinky.

The bones in the bag shattered under his weight.

His shoulders were pushed into the garbage as the man climbed on top of him and pinned him down.

“You!” he shouted.

He didn’t get the chance to speak any further. Zo jolted his hips as he tried to get the man to the ground. They wrestled again, rotten vegetables and more dubious items flying around them, until a woman yelled from the upper window.

“I’ll get the watch if you don’t calm down! Get out of the street!”

“All my apologies, fair lady,” Zo said as he struggled back to his feet. “We’ll be on our way!”

He sketched a bow and the window slammed shut.

His assailant now stood up as well and was skimming through Zo’s bag. He snatched it from his hands.

“Do that again,” he said in his most threatening tone. “And I will slam that shovel harder next time we meet.”

The broken bones clinkered as he threw the bag on his shoulder.

“That would explain the headache,” he heard mumbled behind him. He turned around. The man was following him. “I honestly fought I had slipped on the muddy grass and hurt my head while falling. You really knocked me down with a shovel?”

“Yes,” Zo grumbled. “But you just threw me into a garbage pile, so I think that makes us even?”

The man chuckled. “Right. I’m Leo,” he said, holding out his hand. “You?”

“Zo.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Do you tell that to all the people you threw into garbage?”

Leo laughed again and Zo decided that he liked that sound very much. “Only those who have shovels,” he said with a wink. “Care for a drink?”

“If you’re paying. I would have made some coins with those bones, you know. Well, of course you know. You’re in the trade too, no?”

If the man was competition, Zo might have to get rid of him more permanently.

“No, not really,” Leo said. “I’m an apprentice at Verrochio’s studio. But not for long,” he added with a wide grin. “One day, I’ll have my own studio and everyone will have heard of Leonardo da Vinci.”

“As a major prick who shoves people into garbage?”

“No, as a painter,” Leo said as if it was the most logical thing.

Zo nodded, not really impressed. “Why are you interested in the artefacts then?”

“Because they are ancient.” Leo’s eyes shone. “I believe they hold power, a window to the life of our ancestors. Even if most think it to be witchcraft, they’re worth studying.”

“If you want, I can procure you some,” Zo offered. “With the discount I’d give a friend.”

“Does that mean we are friends, then?”

“Buy me that drink, and we’ll see.”

 

“And that, Nico, is how we met!”

“I think he’s sleeping.”

“While I’m telling the most amazing tale ever heard by mortal ears?”

“Yes...He looks peaceful, though. I don’t want to wake him up.”

“Let’s get back to the roof?”

“Good idea.”

“Will you ever tell me what happened to the medal you pawned? Did you find your father?”

“That’s a story for another time."

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my RebelNaNo2017!  
> I had a blast writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it!  
> Thanks a huuuuuge lot to meridianrose for the beta-reading!


End file.
